 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 16.
Qvencht are the dying Embers of compassion,
For empty sorrow findes no lamentation:
When as thy Harvest flourisht with full eares,
Thy sleightest griefe brought in a tide of teares;
But now, alas! thy Crop consum'd, and gon,
Thou art but food, for beasts to trample on;
Thy servants glory in thy ruine, those
That were thy private friends, are publike foes;
Thus, thus (say they) we spit our rankrous spleene,
And gnash our teeth upon the worlds faire Queene;
Thrice welcome this (this long expected) day,
That crownes our conquest, with so sweet a prey.
| Divine poems
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